


I don't want your pity, but sympathy can't hurt

by LovelyLessie



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Caretaking, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Sick Character, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: First year Garrison cadet Lance isn't sick right now. He can't be sick. (But if he WAS, well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad to let his best friend give him some support.)
Relationships: Hunk & Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	I don't want your pity, but sympathy can't hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for vomiting (like, kind of a lot of it)

Lance feels off all day, in a prickly uncomfortable way that he can’t seem to find a word for, that makes his shoulders itch and his spine crawl, but it’s not until after dinner that he really starts to feel  _ wrong.  _

He can’t be getting sick, though, he tells himself. It’s almost the end of term, he’s not about to miss classes  _ now _ and look like some kind of slacker to the upper brass, especially when they have to be making decisions soon about who gets to be a fighter pilot and who gets shunted off to  _ cargo _ . No way can he afford to take a day off if he’s sick, so he  _ can’t _ be.

But he feels sluggish and slow, despite the restless energy that’s been keeping him on edge all day, and the uncomfortable weight that settled into his stomach after eating doesn’t really subside with time to digest. 

“Man, is it just me, or does everything feel kinda like garbage today?” he complains, looking up at Hunk from his place sprawled on the floor with a comic book. “Like, just not quite right, you know?”

Hunk shrugs, frowning at him. “Yeah, I don’t… know if I do, actually,” he says. “Can you be a little more specific?”

“I dunno,” Lance says with a sigh. “I just feel like… weird. Not  _ bad _ necessarily. I mean, I’m  _ fine. _ It’s just - kinda heavy, I guess? Like something in the air, maybe.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunk says, shaking his head. “Think it might just be you, buddy.” 

“Whatever,” Lance says, rolling his eyes, and sets his comic aside. “Maybe I’ll go up on the roof, get some fresh air.” That always helps clear his head, even if the desert air is too dry and dusty and makes him miss home. 

“Okay,” Hunk says. “Have fun.”

He pushes himself to his feet and turns towards the door, but the sudden movement makes his head reel, and the feeling in his gut that had just been heavy a moment ago suddenly becomes a little queasy. He groans, closing his eyes so the room will stop spinning. 

“Uh, you good?” Hunk asks.

Lance nods vehemently, though the motion doesn’t really make him feel better. “Yeah,” he says, “like I  _ said, _ I’m fine. Just kinda, uh…” Man, this must be what Hunk feels like all the time, he thinks, but somehow that doesn’t make him feel any better. If anything, thinking of Hunk’s complaining every time they’re in the sim only makes the nausea worse. 

“You don’t look that great,” Hunk says, sitting up in bed. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s about to reassure him again, but then his stomach does some kind of weird horrible backflip and saliva floods the bottom of his mouth. “Shit,” he manages thickly, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. “I think I’m gonna--”

That’s as far as he gets before his gut clenches and he heaves, clapping a hand over his mouth as acid sears up his throat. “Whoa, buddy, you--” Hunk begins as he bolts past towards the bathroom, but whatever else he says Lance doesn’t hear, because he’s barely reached the door when his stomach convulses and he throws up half his dinner, all over his hand and onto the bathroom floor. 

“Oh, fuck,” he chokes out, his face burning, and slumps against the edge of the door for support as his knees threaten to give out under him, because no matter how much he wants to just collapse on the floor right now he’s  _ not _ gonna do it in a puddle of his own vomit. He’s already a mess as it is, with sick still dripping slowly through his fingers, a few thick strands of saliva stretching between his mouth and his open hand. The sight makes him want to puke again, and he grimaces, turning his palm over to break the clinging threads of mucus. 

“Aw, Lance,” Hunk says from behind him, and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” he mumbles, wrapping one arm around his stomach _. _

“What--? No, I’m not - why would I make fun of you?” Hunk falters. “Dude, I get sick, like, all the time, I know how much throwing up sucks. I’m not gonna try and make you feel  _ worse.” _

He already feels about as awful as he’s ever felt in his life, so he’s not really sure what difference it makes, but he doesn’t point it out, mostly because his stomach is still churning and he’s pretty sure if he opens his mouth he’s gonna be sick again and embarrass himself even more than he already has. 

“You need to sit down?” Hunk asks, and he nods.

Hunk puts an arm around him and carefully guides him to the bottom bunk so he can sit. Saliva pools under his tongue again as he slumps down onto the mattress and he swallows hard, hunching his shoulders and trying his hardest to will his stomach to settle. 

“You gonna throw up again?” Hunk asks. He manages a weak noise of affirmation, afraid to move his head and make it worse. 

Hunk runs to grab the plastic trash can from under his desk and thrusts it into his lap. “Thanks,” he mumbles, and ducks his head with a groan, his breath hitching as his stomach threatens to climb up his throat again. “Oh, God—“ 

He retches, a stream of sick spilling into the bottom of the trash can, and has to screw his eyes shut against the sting of tears. He’s already making himself look bad enough; the last thing he needs is to cry in front of his best friend, no matter  _ how _ rotten he feels. 

“Here,” Hunk says, and Lance lifts his head a little to see him offering a box of tissues. He takes one to wipe his mouth, and then grabs a fistful and clumsily wipes his hand clean, trying not to look at it while he does. “You, uh, you want me to get you some water?” Hunk asks, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. 

“Not really,” he mutters, crumpling up the tissues and dropping them into the trash. “Probably just make me hurl again.” 

“You gotta try to drink something, buddy,” Hunk says. “How about a sports drink? Oh, I bet the vending machines have ginger ale, that might help—“ 

“Shut uuuuuup,” Lance groans. 

“Okay, well,” Hunk says, ignoring his protests. “I’m gonna go get you a bottle of water. And, um, maybe some stuff to clean up with.” 

“But,” he tries to argue, but Hunk is already leaving the room, and the door slides closed behind him. Lance sighs and slumps over, reaching for another tissue to scrub at his watering eyes while Hunk is out of the room and won’t see it. 

He’s too focused on fighting back another wave of nausea to pay much attention to how long Hunk is gone, but he lifts his head when the door opens to see him come back in, his arms full of drinks. 

“I don’t… really want…” he protests as Hunk sets two water bottles, a ginger ale, and no fewer than three sports drinks on the edge of his desk. 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Hunk says. “Fluids aren’t really optional, though, that’s pretty much, like, sickness recovery 101. Trust me, I’d know.” 

“Whoa, hey, what are you doing?” Lance asks as he opens the bathroom door. “Uh, did you forget about how I threw up in there?”

“Obviously not,” Hunk says, waving a roll of paper towel at him. “I  _ told _ you I was getting stuff to clean up.” 

Lance swallows hard as his stomach turns over, and stares down at the floor. “You don’t have to…” he mumbles, not sure if the knot in his gut is guilt or just the remains of his dinner. 

“Come on, man,” Hunk tells him. “What kind of a shitty best friend would I be if I made you deal with it yourself when you’re still sick?” 

“I’m a  _ grown-up, _ Hunk,” he groans, and is about to say more, but his stomach lurches uncomfortably and he decides maybe he’d better stop talking for a little bit. 

“Yeah, okay,” Hunk says, and takes advantage of his silence to duck into the bathroom. “Ohhh, gosh,” Lance hears him mutter to himself around the corner. “ _ Ugh _ \- okay, Hunk, you got this -“ 

Lance hunches his shoulders and braces the trash can between his knees so he can wrap his arms around himself. If he doesn’t move too much and tries to breathe sort of shallowly, he feels a little less queasy, so he tries to focus on keeping very, very still, and not think too much about the mess Hunk is trying to clean up. 

“So, if you’re so grown up, how come you still haven’t even opened one of those drinks I brought you?” Hunk asks impatiently as he emerges from the bathroom a moment later. 

“I don’t  _ want _ to,” he says, glowering. “Pretty much over puking my guts up, thanks, really  _ don’t _ need to do any more of that today.” 

“You threw up, like,  _ ten  _ minutes ago,” Hunk says. “Just try a few sips of something!” 

“You can’t make me,” Lance says. “You’re not my  _ mom.”  _

“Oh,” Hunk says, throwing his hands in the air. “So you wanna go to medical? Because that’s how you end up in medical, Lance!” 

“Ughhhhhh,” he groans, curling up tighter around himself. 

“With a needle stuck in your arm,” Hunk continues. “And let me tell  _ you, _ I’ll sit with you and try to make you feel better even when you’re puking, but if you need an IV I am  _ not  _ about to stick around for that—“

“Okay, okay, fine!” Lance sighs. “I’ll drink the stupid sports drink, okay?” 

“ _ Thank _ you,” Hunk says, rolling his eyes as Lance reaches for the nearest bottle. “Oh, hang on - ” He ducks back into the bathroom and comes out with a damp washcloth. “Here, for your hand.” 

Lance sets the drink down again to take the cloth, and grimaces as he scrubs the residual film of sick from between his fingers. “I coulda done that,” he mumbles, feeling a flush of shame creep into his cheeks. He must look like such a stupid  _ kid _ right now, curled up on the edge of Hunk’s bed over the trash can, hugging his stomach, too miserable to get off his sorry ass and wash his hands by himself. 

“Well, sure, but you didn’t have to,” Hunk says. “You’re welcome, by the way.” There’s no bite in his voice, but it still stings enough to make Lance flinch away. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, unable to look Hunk in the eye. He cracks open the sports drink to take a tiny, tentative sip. 

“You mind if I sit here with you?” Hunk asks. He shakes his head, swallowing thickly, and Hunk sits down next to him, his weight shifting the mattress so Lance’s shoulder bumps against his. 

“Sorry,” Lance says after a few moments, and takes another sip of his sports drink. 

“Wh—for what?” Hunk asks. “Because you’re sick? Seriously, dude, it’s not…” 

“For being a jerk,” he says, hunching his shoulders. “You’re trying to help and I’m yelling at you.” 

His eyes are burning again, and he looks away quickly before Hunk can see. 

“I guess I’m the shitty best friend, huh?” he adds, and forces a laugh. 

“I don’t think you’re a shitty friend,” Hunk says, his hand coming to rest lightly on Lance’s shoulder. “I mean, I’ve totally snapped at you tons of times when I don’t feel good.” 

“Yeah, well, I usually deserve it,” Lance says, and manages a rueful grin before his stomach roils and he groans. 

“You okay?” Hunk asks, his hand tightening on Lance’s shoulder. 

He shakes his head, gritting his teeth as nausea swells up under his ribs again.

“Gonna throw up?” Hunk presses gently, and he nods. Hunk moves his hand to rest between his shoulder blades, warm and solid against his back, and Lance has to screw his eyes shut to keep from crying because it’s just so damn  _ nice.  _ Stupid Hunk, being all sympathetic and making him emotional when he’s  _ already _ on the verge of tears. 

His stomach lurches and he doubles over, gagging. He half expects Hunk to flinch away, but he doesn’t, just rubs slow circles between his shoulders while he heaves. The sports drink comes back up and spills into the trash can, followed by another stream of acid and half-digested food, and he whimpers, chokes back a sob as he tries to catch his breath. 

“I got you,” Hunk says, still rubbing his back. “You’re okay, I got you.” 

“S-sorry,” he manages, gasping for breath, and feels his face heat up as tears overwhelm him and run down his cheeks. “ _ Shit,  _ sorry, I didn’t - didn’t wanna—“ 

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay,” Hunk assures him, pressing a couple of tissues into his hand. He scrubs at his eyes first, and then wipes the spit and sick from the corners of his mouth before throwing the tissues into the garbage. 

“I wasn’t gonna cry about it,” he mumbles, his voice shaking a little. “I’m not a  _ kid _ anymore.” 

“You know grown-ups can cry, too, right?” Hunk asks. “That’s definitely a thing people still do when they grow up.” 

“Shut up,” Lance says, but he doesn’t have the energy to put any feeling into it. 

“Here, you should at least rinse your mouth out,” Hunk says, cracking open one of the water bottles to offer it to him. “And take a couple sips if you can, okay?” 

He takes the bottle and lifts his head to pour a little into his mouth, swishing it around in his cheeks and under his tongue before he spits it back out. Getting the taste of vomit out of his mouth makes the nausea a little better, so he tries a tentative sip afterwards, the cold water a relief in his burning throat. 

“There you go,” Hunk says, patting his shoulder gently as he takes the water bottle back. “You should get some rest, man, you look pretty terrible.”

“Oh, thanks,” he says with a shaky laugh. “I dunno if trying to sleep sounds like such a great idea right now, though.” He’s not really sure he’s going to be able to climb up to his bed, for that matter, because even lifting his arms seems like it would take more strength than he has in him right now, but he’s not about to say that out loud. 

“You wanna sleep in my bed?” Hunk offers, like he’s reading his mind or something. “I can take yours for the night.” 

It’s a good idea, and it’s  _ incredibly  _ thoughtful, and God  _ damn _ it, he is  _ not _ going to cry again over something like that. “Nah, that’s okay,” he says, trying his best to put on a brave face. “I mean, if you wanna go to bed, though, I can camp out in the bathroom, get out of your way.”

“And what, you’re just not gonna sleep?” Hunk asks, frowning. “Come on, dude, that’s not gonna help you get better.”

“I’ll sleep when I feel less rotten,” he mumbles. Even if he  _ was  _ going to sleep in Hunk’s bed, which he isn’t, he doesn’t trust that he’s done puking, and he’s not about to lay down when he still feels like his stomach might revolt again any minute. 

“Well, I can at least stay up with you,” Hunk says. 

“That’s dumb,” Lance tells him, looking away, and swallows hard against the lump in his throat and the metallic taste on the back of his tongue. 

“ _ What _ ?” Hunk asks. “Sorry, what’s dumb about keeping my best friend company, exactly?” 

“Embarrassing,” he mutters under his breath, his face feeling hot, and scrubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. Man, he’s glad no one else is here to see him looking like this much of a mess. At least Hunk doesn’t ever make fun of him, even when he  _ does  _ make himself look like a total loser. 

“What, that I’m trying to make you feel better?” Hunk asks. “Look, if it really bothers you that much, I’ll leave you alone, I just thought—“ 

He breaks off when Lance groans, leaning over the trash can as the muscles in his abdomen convulse. Hunk’s hand settles on his back again, and Lance tries to focus on that instead of how much his stomach is churning. It sort of works; the queasy feeling abates enough that he can steady out his breathing, and he realizes that actually, he really,  _ really _ doesn’t want Hunk to go to bed and leave him huddled in the bathroom by himself. 

“How about this,” Hunk says, rubbing his shoulders. “If you want me to leave you alone, you can go sit in the bathroom and I’ll go to bed. Til then, I’m gonna hang out with you, deal?”

“Okay,” he mumbles, and swallows hard. “I guess if you really  _ want _ to stay up, I won’t stop you.” He’s not going to  _ say _ he wants the comfort, because that sounds stupid, but when he feels this awful maybe it’s not so weird to be a little grateful for Hunk sitting by him with a hand on his back. 

“You wanna try some more water?” Hunk offers, holding out the bottle. “Or that ginger ale, maybe, see if it’ll settle your stomach?”

The thought of drinking any kind of soda right now is  _ totally _ unappealing, and he shakes his head, which is apparently a mistake, because the movement makes his stomach leap into his throat again. He doubles over the trash can to let out a sickly burp that tastes like vomit in his mouth and only makes the nausea worse. Hunk pats him tentatively on the back, and his stomach roils; he feels the burn of acid crawling up his throat and burps again before he actually throws up, emptying what little is left in his stomach into the garbage. 

“You’re okay, man,” Hunk says gently, rubbing circles over his shoulder blades as he retches and heaves. “You’re alright, just - ugh - yeah, just get it out.” 

“Sorry,” he chokes out when he manages to catch his breath. “I’m pretty disgusting right now, huh?” He can’t stop shaking and he feels like a wrung-out dish towel, but the queasy feeling that’s been sitting heavy in his stomach since dinner is mostly gone, leaving him exhausted more than anything. 

“No more than anyone is when they’re puking,” Hunk says with a shrug. “Here, rinse your mouth,” 

He does, and takes a cautious sip of water afterwards, his hand trembling so badly it spills down his chin and drips onto his shirt, but he barely has the energy to even be embarrassed. “Hunk?” he whimpers as he hands the bottle back. 

“Yeah, buddy?” Hunk says, putting an arm around his shoulders in a sort of sideways hug. 

“I really don’t feel good,” he admits, and leans against Hunk’s shoulder. “This sucks.” 

“Aw, Lance,” Hunk says, and ruffles his hair with a fond smile, only to pull back sharply when his hand brushes over Lance’s brow. “Shit, you must really be sick, dude, your face is  _ burning _ up.” 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, hunching in on himself. “Figured it wasn’t… just something I ate, or you’d be puking too.” Now that his stomach isn’t so violently upset, he  _ does _ just want to sleep, but just the idea of climbing up into bed is enough to tire him out; actually  _ doing  _ it sounds impossible. 

“Keep trying to drink that water if you can,” Hunk says. “I’m gonna get you a cold cloth to put on your face, okay?” 

Lance nods, sitting up so Hunk can get to his feet. 

“You think you’re gonna throw up again?” he asks as he stands. “I can, uh, y’know - dump that out, if you think you’ll be okay for a few minutes.” 

“Don’t want you to have to…” Lance protests weakly. 

“Hey, it’s fine,” Hunk assures him with a brave smile. “I can handle it. Just, uh, yell if you start to feel sick again, okay? It’s not a big deal in the bathroom, but it’ll be kind of a pain if you barf on the carpet.” 

“Okay,” he mumbles, nodding, and lets Hunk take the trash can to the bathroom to empty it into the toilet. 

Despite the burning in his cheeks, without Hunk sitting next to him he suddenly feels very cold, and he wraps his arms around himself, shivering. He wants to lie down, but he’s pretty sure if he does he’s going to end up falling asleep, and no matter how much Hunk says it’s okay he’s not taking his best friend’s bed for the night,  _ especially _ when he’s sick and probably contagious. 

Maybe he can just lean up against the wall, he decides, and scoots down to the foot of the bed to rest his shoulder against the wall, turning his face to press against the cool surface. His eyes flutter closed, and he thinks,  _ just til Hunk comes back.  _ He can rest until then. 

He must doze off a little, because when Hunk shakes his shoulder a moment later he startles awake feeling dizzy and disoriented, with the distinct feeling that someone was calling his name.  _ Mom’s looking for me, _ he thinks, opens his mouth to explain that before he realizes how crazy that would sound. He must have been dreaming. 

“Sorry to wake you up,” Hunk says sheepishly. “I kinda figured you’d be more comfortable laying down, though. You’re gonna regret it in the morning if you sleep sitting up like that.” 

“Oh,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I guess you’re right.”

“I’m gonna leave the trash bin here in case you get sick again, okay?” Hunk tells him, setting it down by the bedside table. “And I’m gonna need you to get up for a sec so I can grab my blanket. You might be my best friend, but you are  _ not _ gonna sleep with that.” 

“I don’t…” Lance mumbles groggily, shaking his head. “No, I can - sleep on the floor or something, you don’t need to…” 

“Man, shut up,” Hunk says with a wry smile, pulling the blanket free as Lance gets to his feet. “Just lay down and get some rest.” 

He doesn’t have it in him to argue, so he just sighs. “Mkay,” he mumbles, and sinks back down onto Hunk’s bed. 

“Here,” Hunk says, holding out a damp washcloth. “For your face, to help your fever.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and finds there are tears in his eyes again; he rubs them away with the heel of his hand. “Hey, Hunk?” 

“Yeah?” he says as he goes to put the light out. 

“You’re a really great friend,” Lance says, managing a shaky smile as he curls up on his side. “Thanks for, you know, being here, and...all that stuff.” 

“You bet, buddy,” Hunk says. “What are best friends for?” 


End file.
